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Montpelier examiner. [volume] (Montpelier, Idaho) 1895-1937, April 06, 1906, Image 7

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Tbtro Ways to "Piracy
When Willie was a llftle lad,
He longed to go to aea.
He said (his reading had been bad)
A pirate he would be.
His parents kept a watchful ey«
On Willie day and night,
Until he grew up, by and by,
Moat polished and polite.
I»»»»»»
He wore a frock coat every day,
Likewise a beaver hat.
He joined in the financial fray
And high In Wall street sat.
He w
Until a Jury a
Took notice of n
Investigated him.
a leader In the land
rtm
Is profits and
His parents when the tacts were known
Were much disturbed in mind.
His father vowed his youth had shown
Just how he was Inclined.
His mother said, "I quite agrçe
This news Is hard to bear.
I'd rather he had gone to sea,
To be a plmte there."
—Washington Star.
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(Copyright, 1906, by Dally Story Pub. Co.)
In the province of San Diego, near
the^iver La Plaza, grew at one time
the prettiest flower nature had ever
fashioned into womanhood. Brown
eyes, from out whose depths flashed
fire, served only to enhance the
beauty of a face bewitching, a form
supple as the willow, disclosed it
self beneath a dainty gown. A rus
tic pictnre was she, indeed, divine,
Mercedes.
Don Palo, dark, handsome, stood
beneath a festooned palmetto and
gazed enraptured at this picture. His
black mustache curled upward and
his eyebrows hung thick over keen,
restless eyes, that at this moment
were transfigured with love's passion.
He wore the gaudy creole dress of a
San Diego dandy and, on his head,
he wore a wide sombrero, decorated
with silver spangles and a band of
woven horsehair.
In the distance could be heard the
silvery peal of a convent bell and,
when the wind quieted, the faint echo
of the Mlsereri floated on the air.
Pah)) approached and touched the
listening girl upon the arm. She
sprang away like a startled doe and
then returned with a glad light in her
eyes, extending both her hands.
"Oh, Palo! Is it you?" she cried.
He took her hands in his and print
ed a fervent kiss upon her lips. "Yes.
Meroedee," he answered, "I have come
bank to see you once again."
"But—, but—'' she began.
"No, Chiquita, there is little dan
ger. No one knows that I am here.
And besides," he continued, furrowing
his brow with an, ugly wrinkle, "what
should I fear?"
The girl threw her arms around 'is
neck and kissed him passionately,
"But. if they should put my Palo In
prison?" she cried. "No, they can
not i love him too much. God will
. prevent it."
Out of the convent window Sister
Sorted looked listlessly. Her hymn
book sank neglected to her side. She
was watching the two In the distance
and her lips moved, mechanically, re
citing the service.
As she looked the two parted, and
Mevuedes was left standing alone. She
was the daughter of a miller, he the
sou ef the governor of the province
of Baa Diego. Sister Soricé shook
her head sadly.
she
see
the
is
she
to
-,
day Sister Soricé saw them
meet aed each day he wooed her more
•ardentty. ■ntil one day he declared
himaidf and Mercedes was the hap
pieot (M la all San Diego.
Scaled was happy also.
this who thinks of fathers when
they love?
Whoa Palo went to his father and
confessed his love for Mercedes, he
flew lata an awful rage. "What? He.
Pale, ef the best blood of San Diego,
to nury a Greaser's daughter? Who
waa he that he should choose? Was
not lie Senorlta Isabella chosen for
Sister
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The faint echo of the Mleereri floated
on the air.
him—die who was of the best Span
ish blood in Mexico?"
Pak» remained silent. Suddenly his
father grew calm. A calm that struck
to Polo's heart. "Son," he said stern
, "you will never go near the mil
lér's daughter again. I shall give or
ders. If you are caught there, you*
win be jnK In prison. Remember, I
mean what I say."
But Palo came again to see his
Mercedes and Sister Soricé was watch
ing from her high convent window.
he came to tell his sweetheart
!tbat he la going away on a trip to
f*r off Spain, but he will be back
ly
again in a year, perhaps sooner. Will
she wait for_hlm till then?
Will she? What pan words express
more than those eyes?
"In the morning," he said, "I may
see you again, 'tis for the last time by
the bridge that goes over the Plaza,
is It not so? Mia Carrlsslma!"
Tears came to the girl's eyes as she
nodded her head. He kissed her and
went down the path. In the morning
she was waiting for him at the bridge
when Palo arrived. She was about
to fly into his arms, when, out from
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21
An impulse, a flash, and it was done.
the shrubbery stepped a soldier. "I
arrest you Senor," he said.
Arrest, prison, disgrace, for her lov
er, all this flitted through the mind of
Mercedes as she stood there. The
officer's back was turned toward her.
An impulse, a flash, and It was done.
She had drawn the dagger from her
girdle and plunged it into his back. He
feil like a log. Palo shrank back,
aghast.
"If I am caught now," he cried.
"But you will not. Go! Co! she
cried. In frenzy pushing him toward
the bridge. "Go! Go!, You must!
you must! Nobody shall know! No
body shall know!"
He let himself be gently pushed
along, for he realized what danger
both were In. At the bridge she
stopped. "Kiss me once," she cried.
He stooped and kissed her passion
ately.
"I will return for you soon. Chi
quita," he said. "No one will know,"
nodding In the direction of the pros
trate soldier, "run quickly so that no
one sees us."
They parted and Mercedes began to
run quickly through the woods. Sud
denly she paused. Something caught
her by the heart and stopped Its beat
ing. The dagger, It was still in the
wound; they would know.
She ran back as fast as her legs
would carry her, but she was too late.
She saw people standing around tljp
body. She fancied she heard hér
name spoken. Fleet as a deer, she
sped away, but before she had gone
a hundred yards, she was discovered.
There was a shout and a dozen start
ed after her.
They were gaining on her, but she
looked neither to the right nor the
left The silver bell of the convent
was again ringing and she ran in
stinctively towards the sombre shel
tering walls. She stumbled up the
steps and fell into the arms of Sister
Soricé.
"Child," she said, and placed a shel
tering arm around her. In an in
stant, her manner changed. Snatching
the silver crulflx from her girdle she
held it defiantly Into the faces of the
oncoming mob. They recoiled from
It as from a great repellant force.
"Stop," she cried; "she has taken
refuge with God. Would you defile
the sanctuary of the Lord?"
They looked into the calm, de
termined face of Sister Soricé, and
one by one, slunk shamefacedly away.
Trembling, Mercedes wept out her
story to the sister, who, when she
heard it, wept with her.
"Come child," she said, and led the
way to the high little window. They
looked out upon the fields and forests.
Down the winding road came a litter
bearing the soldier, but he was not
dead. His hands moved and he twist
ed In pain. Far, far away, a speck on
the road, was the figure of a man. He
turned and waved his hand as though
he knew his sweetheart was watching.
It seemed to Mercedes as though
I
tha could hear his voice, but
it' was only the mumbling of the bell
■ t nd the "Mlsereri" of the sisters, as
laey sang:
"Mlsereri mel Domini."
"My child," sai l Elster Soricé, gent
ly putting her ana about Mercedes,
"( will tell you a story. Twenty years
ago a maiden bid her lover good bye
by that little bridge down there. 'Walt
for me,' he said. 'I will return soon!'
But he did not, and soon the maid
took refuge in this convent to hide
her shame. A little girl was born and
a good man took pity on it and adopt
ed it as his own. That maid, Mercedes,
was myself. For twenty years I have
looked down that road, watching for
the return of my lover."
She paused and looked at Mercedes
with infinite yeftrnlng. "And you," she
continued at last, "Has the miller
never told you."
Mercedes looked at the sister in
surprise. "Told me what?"
"You—you are—my—child."
An instant's pause and they were
in each other's arms, weeping.
Many years have passed since then.
One weary watcher has been laid to
rest, but there is a sister still, with
snowy white hair and kind, wistful
face, who stands by the high little
window and looks out upon the road.
Perhaps she fancies there is a fig
ure coming in the distance.
Perhaps she fancies she hears a
voice. It is only the humming of,the
old bell and the echo of the quavering
voices as they sing:
"Mlsereri mei Domini."
WEASEL KEEN ON THE TRAIL
Little Animal a Determined but Grace
. ful Hunter.
The lithe grace of the weasel may
be observed whenever it is on the
trail. At an even speed, with nose to
the ground, its reddish-brown back
seems literally to glide along through
the rank herbage by the bank.
It may be the scent of a rat, and
the trail may take It in and out of the
bank a good many times before It
comes up with Its victim,
even have to swim a stream before
It Is
It may
its persistence is rewarded,
wonderful how small a hole that long,
arched body can glide Into and
emerge from without the slightest
difficulty.
When It has caught and killed its
prey Its movements are equally grace
ful as it carries the spoil home to its
hole.
Crossing a Kentish field this week
I saw a weasel coming along under
the hedgerow red toothed from the
chase. There was the same sinuous
motion of the back; but the little
beast's head was held as high as pos
sible, and from its mouth hung the
limp carcass of a young rat, freshly
killed. The weasel held It by the
neck, and so high, for all the short
ness of its legs, that only the end of
the rat's tall dragged through the
grass.
A family of weasels will often hunt
in company, and this Is naturally a
most interesting sight to witness.
The ability of the weasel to enter ex
ceedingly small*- holes Is owing en
tirely to the structure of its body—
its flat head, long neck, and short
limbs and tail. In a corn rick it can
pursue mice with ease along their
burrows.—London Daily Mail.
de
on
He
Lesson in Architecture.
One of the young architects who
delivers a lecture on modern archi
tecture in the series of free public
school lectures had just shown his au
dience the beauties of the Cologne ca
thedral the other night, when he
thought of an experience he once had
on a similar occasion. "It was at the
conclusion of my lecture," he told his
audience, "that a woman came to me,
explained that she too was a student
of architecture and thanked me for
enlightening her on one point that she
had never been able to understand
before. 'I've always wondered,' she
said to me, 'where the Colonial style
of architecture came from. Now, of
course, I see that it comes from Co
logne.'
" 'What did you tell her?' asked
some one in the audience.
"I told her," replied the speaker,
"that if my lecture had made that
clear to her I felt very much grati
fied."—New York Sun.
Two Kinds of Liquor Bills.
Representative Nehemiah Day
Sperey of Connecticut was leaning
mournfully over the back rail in the
House of Representatives the othei
dqy. Mr. Sperey is the chairman of
the committee on alcoholic liquor traf
fie.
Mark Smith, the cheerful delegate
from Arizona, approached the dejected
looking Sperey and said, "What seems
to be worrying you, old chap; cheer
up."
"I was thinking of a little liquor bill
I have over In the Senate," returned
Sperey, without looking up.
"Well, why don't you pay it and get
It off your mind," demanded the Ari
zona man, who evidently thought that
the Prohibitionist from the Nutmeg
state was referring to the bartender's
accumulated charges for sundry
drinks.
Willie's Horoscope.
Father (after three months' ab
sence)—And the children?
Mother-All flourishing but Willie.
I don't know what to make of him.
He never plays.
He Is continually to be found sneak
ing In and out of the pantry, his pock
ets stuffed with jampots, pie and
cake; and at other times you are sure
to find him In the nursery trying to
shake pennies out of hls sister's sav
ings banks.
' Father (joyfully)—A born finan
cier, by jingo! This family's fortunes
will flourish yet.
He never laughs.
f
THE GIRL AT THE
HALFWAY HOUSE
PLAINS J ,
BV E. HOUGH. AUTHOR OF THE STORY OP THE COWBOY
A
STORY Of THE
&
C»*rr it ktt J, nos. ir -J>. AttlttfH A* Ctmtuny, N im Ytrh
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CHAPTER XVI.
a
at
The Halfway House.
"Miss Ma'y Ellen," cried Aunt Lucy,
thrusting her head in at the door,
"oh, Miss Ma'y Ellen. I wish't you'd
come out yer right quick. They's two
o' them prai' dogs out yer a-chasin'
ouaii hens agin—nasty, dirty things!"
"Very well, Lucy," called out a
voice in answer. Mary Ellen arose
from her seat near the window,
whence she had been gazing out over
the wide, flat prairie lands and at the
blue, unwinking sky. Gathering each
a bit of stick, she and Aunt Lucy
drove away the two grinning daylight
thieves, as they had done dozens of
times before their kin, all eager for a
taste of this new feathered game that
had come in upon the range. With
plenteous words of admonition, the
two corralled the excited but terror
stricken speckled hen, which had been
the occasion of the trouble, driving
her back within the gates of the in
closure they had found a necessity for
the preservation of the fowls of their
"hen ranch."
"It's that same Domineck, isn't it.
Lucy?" said Mary Ellen, leaning over
the fence and gazing at the fowls.
"Yess'm, that same ole hen, blame
her fool soul! She's mo' bother'n
she's wuf. We kin git two dollahs
fer her cooked, an' seems like long's
she's erlive she bound' fer ter keep
me chasin' 'roun' after her. I 'clare.
she Jest keep the whole lot o' ouah
chickens wore down to a frazzle, she
tralpsin 'roun' all the time, an' them
a-follerin' her. An', of co'se," she
added argumentatively, "we all got to
keep up the reppytation o' ouah cook
in'. I kaln't ask these yer men a
dollah a meal—not fer no lean ole hen
wif no meat ontoe her bones—no,
ma'am."
Aunt Lucy spoke with professional
pride and with a certain right to au
thority. The reputation of the Half
way House ran from the Double Forks
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Drove away the two grinning thieves.
of the Brazos north to Abilene, and
much of the virtue of the table was
dependent upon the resources of this
"hen ranch," whose fame was spread
abroad throughout the land. Saved
by the surpassing grace of pie and
"chicken fixings," the halting place
chosen for so slight reason by Buford
and his family had become a perma
nent abode, known gratefully to many
travelers and productive of more than
a living for those who had estab
lished It. It was, after all, the finan
cial genius of Aunt Lucy, accustomed
all her life to culinary problems, that
had foreseen profit in eggs and chick
ens when she noted the exalted joy
with which the hungry cow punchers
fell upon a meal of this sort after a
season of salt pork, tough beef and
Dutch-oven bread.
At first Major Buford rebelled at the
thought of Inkeeping. His family had
kept open house before the war, and
he came from a land where the
thoughts of hospitality and of price
were not to be mentioned In the same
day. Yet he was in a region where
each man did many things, the first
that thing which seemed nearest at
hand to be done.
From the Halfway House south to
the Red River there was nothing edi
ble. And over this Red River there
came now swarming uncounted thou
sands of broad-horned cattle, drl.^n
by many bodies of hardy, sunburned,
beweaponed, hungry men.
ville, now rapidly becoming an Im
portant cattle market, the hotel ac
commodations were more pretentious
than comfortable, and many a cow
man who had sat at the board of the
Halfway House going up the trail,
would mount his horse and ride back
twenty-Qve miles for dinner. Such are
the attractions of corn bread and
chicken when prepared by the hands
of a real genius gone astray on this
much miscooked world.
Thus the little Southern family
quickly found Itself possessed of a
definite, profitable and growing busi
ness.
Buford was soon able to employ aid
ta making his Improvements. He
constructed a large dugout, after the
fashion of the dwelling most com
mon In the country at that time. Thli
manner of dwelling, practically a roof
ed-over oellar, Its side walls showing
but a few feet above the level of the
earth, had been discovered to be a
very practical and comfortable form
of living place hr those settlers who
found a region praetleaUy barren of
At Ellis
«timber, and as yet unsupplied with
brick or boards. In addition to the
main dugout there was a rude barn
bum of sods, and towering high above
the squat buildings rose tue frame of
the first windmill on the cattle trail,
a landmark for many miles. Seeing
these things growing up about him,
at the suggestion and partly through
the aid of his widely scattered but
kind-hearted neighbors. i.»ajor Buford
began to take on heart of grace. He
foresaw for his people an independ
ence. rude and far below their former
plane of life, it was true, yet infinitely
better than a proud despair.
It was perhaps the women who suf
fered most In the transition from
older lands to this new, wild region.
The barren and monotonous prospect,
the high-keyed air and the perpetual
winds, thinned and wore out the
This
fragile form of Mrs. Buford,
impetuous, nerve-wearing air was
much different from the soft, warm
winds of the flower-laden South. At
night as she lay down to sleep she
did not hear the tinkle of music nor
the voice of night-singing birds, which
In the scenes of her girlhood had
been familiar sounds. The moan of
the wind in the short, hard grass was
different from its whisper in the
peach trees, and the shrilling of the
coyotes made but rude substitute for
the trill of the love-bursting mocking
bird that sang Its myriad song far
back in old Virginia.
One day Aunt Lucy, missing Quar
terly Meeting, and eke bethinking her
self of some of those aches and pains
of body and forebodings of mind with
which the negro Is never unprovided,
became mournful In her melody, and
went to bed sighing and disconsolate.
Mary Ellen heard her voice uplifted
long and urgently, and suspecting the
cause, at length went to her door.
"What Is it. Aunt Lucy?" she asked
kindly.
"Nothin', mam; I jess rasslln' wlf
ther throne o' Grace er I'll bit. We
all po' weak sinners. Miss Ma'y El
len."
"Yes, I know, Lucy."
''An' does you know, Miss Ma'y El
len, I sorter gits skeered sometimes,
out yer, fer fear mer supplercashuns
ain't goin' take holt o' heaven jess
right. White folks has one way er
prayin', but er nigger kain't pray
erlone—no, mam, Jess kain't pray
erlone."
"Now, Aunt Lucy," said Mary B&ien,
sagely, "there isn't anything wrong
with your soul at all. You're as good
an old thing as ever breathed, I'm
sure of that, and the Lord will re
ward you if he ever does any one,
white or black."
"Does you think that, honey?"
"Indeed I do."
"Well, sometimes I thinks the lord
ain't goln' to fergive me fer all ther
devilment I done when I was I'll. You
know, Miss Ma'y Ellen, hit take a life
er prayer to wipe out ouah transgre*
shuns. Now, how kin I pray, not to
say pray, out yer, in this yer lan'?
They ain't a chu'ch in a hunderd mile
o' yer, so fer's I kin tell, an' they
shoh'Iy ain't no chu'ch fer cullud folks.
Seems to me like, ef I c'd jess know
er single nigger, so'st we c'd meet
onct in er while, an' so'st we c'd jess
kneel down togetheh an' pray com
fer'ble like, same's ef 'twus back in
ole Vehginny—why. Miss Ma'y Ellen.
I'd be the happiest ole 'ooman ever
you did see."
Mary Ellen rose and went to her
room, returning with her guitar. "Lis
ten, Aunt Lucy," she said; "I will
play and you may sing. That will
make you feel better, I think."
It was only from a perfect under
standing of the negro character that
this proposal could come, and only a
perfect dignity could carry it out with
grace; yet there, beneath the floor of
the wide prairie sea, these strange ex
ercises were carried on, the low
throbbing of the strings according
with the quavering minors of the old
time hymne, until Aunt Lucy wiped
her eyes and smiled.
"Thank yer, Miss Ma'y Ellen," she
said; "thank yer a thousand times.
You shoh'Iy does know how toe com
fort folks migtjty well, even a pore ole
nigger."
On the morning following Aunt
Lucy's devotional exercises that good
soul seemed to be altogether happy
and contented and without any doubts '
as to her future welfare. Mary Ellen
was oat in the open air, bonnetless
and all a-blow. It was a glorious, sun
ny day. the air charged with some
eiHBM of vita! stimulus. TaB
shapely, radiant, not yet tw®ty-ttws
years of age, and mistress of earth'e
best blessing, perfect health—teal
could Mary Ellei^ be sad?
"Chick - chick - chick - chlckee!"
called, bending oyer the fence of the
chicken yard. "Chick, chick, chick! "
•Til be thah t'reckly wlf thfer feed.
Miss Ma'y Ellen," called out Aunt
Lucy from the kitchen,
ently she emerged and Joined her
mistress at the corral.
"Aunt Lucy," said Mary Ellen, "do
you suppose we could ever raise a
garden? I was thinking, if we had a
tew peas, or beans, or things like tttat,
you know-"
"Uh-huh!"
"And do you suppose a rose bush
would grow—a real rose bush, over
by the side of the house?"
"Law, no, chile, whut you talkin'
'bout? Nothin' hain't goln' to grow
yer, 'less'n hit's a little broom cohn,
er some o' that alfalafew, or that soht
er things. Few beans might, ef we
wortered 'em. My lan!" with a sud
den Interest, qs she grasped the
thought, "whut' could I git fer right
fralsh beans, real string beans, I does
wondeh! Bakes, ef I c'd her string
bean* an' apple pies, I shoh'Iy C'd
maKe er foh'tune, right quick. String
beans—why, law, chile!"
"We'll have to think about this gar
den question some day," said Mary
Ellen. She leaned against the corral
post, looking out over the wide ex
panse of the prairie round about. "Are
those our antelope out there, Lucy?"
she asked, pointing out with care the
few tiny objects, thin and knifelike,
crowned with short black forking tips,
which showed up against the sky line
on a distant ridge. "I think they must
be. I haven't noticed them for quite
a while."
"Yass'm," said Aunt Lucy, after a
judicial look. "Them blame I'll goats.
THass um. I wish't they all wuxnt so
mighty peart an' knowin' all ther
time, so'st Majah Buford he o'd git
one o' them now an' then fer to eat.
I 'member mighty well how Cap'n
Franklin sent us down er quarter o'
an'lope. Mighty fine meat, hit wus."
"Er —Miss Ma'y Ellen," began Aunt
Lucy presently, and apparently with a
certain reservation.
"Yes?"
And pv«B
l
(To be continued.)
WHERE HE GOT THEM.
Little Boy's Explanation Embarraaaed
Generous Teacher.
At recess one morning little Nathaa
Gfarowskl withdrew to a corner and
wept, and the heart of his pretty
teacher was moved with compassion.
"What's the matter, Nathan?" she
inquired gently. "Why don't you play
with the others?"
Nathan looked up with dimmed
eyes. DuBt and tears mingled on his
brown cheeks. He pointed mutely to
his skirt and then broke Into a roar:
"It was the dress of Rebecca. Ma
mudder no money has for buy m«9 any
t'ing. I nefer .have the trouser, and
the children—the children—they stick
out the finger on me, and make a
laughs. They call me—call me—a
gt-girl."
"Don't mind them, dear," said Alice
Harmon with sympathy. "They shall
not laugh at you long. I will get you
a coat and trousers, too."
Several days later Nathan appeared
In the glory of a new suit and strutted
about basking in the admiring glances
of those who had despised him. Hie
cup of pride was filled to overflowing
when the superintendent came In with
the principal for a visit of inspection.
Nathan, well In the foreground,
glanced at his garments and looked
at the strangers for approbation.
"Why, little boy, what a fine pair of
trousers!" said the superintendent af
fably . "Where did you get them?*'
Nathan drew himself up to his foil
height, and outstretched his hand In
the direction of his beloved teaaher.
"I got them off her," he announced.
"I got them oft Miss Harmon."
Then Alice Harmon, with tha Mash
of confusion on her fair face, ex
plained: "The—the children—on the
East Side always say 'off' when they
mean 'from.' ''—Llppincott's.
a
' tunately for Mr. Barnes, this senator
wanted to get oS at the sonate flooç.
asd the congress, after long delay, r*.
c«!»*d the mosaics from the preetr
1 den* — w»«hintt<n Post
GOT THERE AT LAST.
President's Messenger Long Delayed
by Senatorial Courtesy."
One of the prerogatives of a United
States senator Is that when he steps
aboard an elevator in the senate wing
of the capitol he Is carried Immedi
ately to his destination, no matter In
which direction the elevator may be
bound or who may be aboard.* Three
rings of the bell indicate that a sena
tor wants to ride, and the conductor
loses no time in responding to the
call.
One day last week Mr. Barnes, the
assistant secretary to the president,
stepped aboard a senate elevator
from the ground floor. In a portfolio
under his arm he carried a message
from the president of the United
States to the Congress.
"Senate floor," said Mr. Barnes, as
the conductor shut the door.
Just then there were three rings of
the bell and the indicator showed that
a senator wanted to be lifted out of
the terrace The elevator went down
instead of up, and Mr. Barnes went
along. The senator in the terrace
only wanted to go to the ground floor.
As he stepped off, however, there was
another senatorial ring from the ter
race. The senator wanted to go to
the gallary floor, and the «levator
went there without stopping. As the
car started down there wer« three
rings from the ground floor, and again
the car fall« - * to stop at the destina
tion of the prerident's secretary. For
1.

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